


Ol' Mrs. Webber’s Fruitcake

by Bumocusal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, Car rides, Castiel in the Bunker, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Driving, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Impala, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Case, Road Trips, Season/Series 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12957999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumocusal/pseuds/Bumocusal
Summary: Driving, love confessions, and fruitcake.The story of how Dean gives all of himself to Castiel for Christmas.The sad fact is, Dean made him this way. Castiel fell, drained from his grace and heavens light, because of Dean. And it was painful to see, especially so clearly on his friends face. Still, Castiel is the type of angel— no, the type of man who can be hurt and torn to shreds but can still look at you and smile and forgive.





	Ol' Mrs. Webber’s Fruitcake

**Author's Note:**

> In a world where canon paused on the glorious #Brokebacknatural episode, we interrupt the boys between a hunt and Christmas. Everything is fluffy and festive. Hope it really lives up to the expectation of Christmas fluff. (Until two hours ago this fic was called "fruitcake au". That's a little easter egg for you!)
> 
> No beta this time. Was too impatient to wait.
> 
> Please press kudos and leave a comment! I'm my happiest when I'm reading a comment, and more inspired to write more.
> 
> Happy holidays for everyone celebrating!

** Ol' Mrs. Gertrude Webber’s Fruitcake  **

 Ingredients:

  * 1 teaspoon baking soda
  * 1 cup sour cream
  * 1 cup chopped dates
  * 2 cups raisins
  * 1/2 cup chopped glazed cherries 
  * 1 cup chopped walnuts
  * 2 cups all-purpose flour (divided into 1/4 cup and 1 3/4 cups)
  * 1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
  * 1 cup granulated sugar
  * 1 egg, room temperature
  * Grated rind of one orange
  * 1 teaspoon salt



Directions

**Preheat oven, prepare loaf pan** : Preheat oven to 325°F and line a 9x5-inch loaf pan with greased parchment paper.

 **Toss dates, raisins, cherries with flour** : Combine the dates, raisins, cherries, and nuts with 1/4 cup of the flour. 

 **Mix together sour cream and baking soda** : Self-explanatory, set aside bowl. 

 **Beat butter and sugar, add egg, orange rind, sour cream, and baking soda, add flour and salt, add fruit and nuts:** Beat together the butter and sugar until fluffy, then add the other ingredients. 

 **Pour batter into baking pan and bake:** Place a separate pan of water underneath the fruitcake or beside it. (The water will help with a more even, gentle cooking.) _Bake at 325°F for one and a half to two hours or until a wooden skewer inserted into the center comes out clean._

 **Cool on a rack** _:_ pull the cake out of pan by pulling up on the parchment paper.

 

* * *

 

Gertrude clutches the thing in her crinkly ancient hands; it was charred with a slimy sheen on the top and neon colored peculiar wrought thingamajigs on the inside. Dean squints, sniffing to see if it has a scent or a distinguishable aroma, thinking it might be a burnt log or a tumor of muck.

“Here you go, dearie.” She smiles toothless, having forgotten to put in her dentures.

Dean takes the blob with an uneasy smile, shifting at the heaviness of it.

“Thanks, ma’am. You said it was a Christmas gift?”

She nodded seriously. “A thank you for getting rid of that pesky ghost.”

Castiel looked down at the indistinguishable mass, blinking slowly. “What is it, exactly?”

“Well,” She scrutinizes them, offended that they can't make out its form under all the weird green bits, “its fruitcake, of course.”

Dean throws out a weak, "thank you, too."

She just smiles, looking at both of them softly. "Head back to your son, now. He's probably worried sick about you two."

When they get back to the Impala, Castiel toting the ill-reputed fifty-pound monster of a loaf, they throw it in the trunk amidst the deadly weaponry. Maybe that’s what they could use it as, a weapon as it’s so weighty. Like a cinderblock, dropping the thing on someone’s head would likely kill them.

Sliding into the front seat and Castiel in the back, Sammy looks at them and then at the oily residue on their hands. He makes a big deal out of not asking about it, guffawing and making a theatrical zipping motion with his hand and lips. He doesn’t bother rolling his eyes, Sam got hurt on this hunt and he could allow his brother a few teasing moments. Shifting the car into gear, taking a second to listen to the captivating rumble of the Impala, Dean spins out of Gertrude Webber’s snow-white lawn in Dayton, Ohio. The hoary roads are coated with salt and slick ice, late enough in the day for the snow plows to have made their runs.

Dean’s instantly thankful he doesn’t have to stop in some hick shop and buy chains for the Impala, it’s always a grueling process as they don’t realize Dean’s pretty knowledgeable when it comes to cars. They always try and swindle him out of more cash than they can spend, Sam having used most of their apportioned money on a stupid tree this time around.

It’s vast and green and leaving pine needles everywhere. Mercifully the bunker has high ceilings.

They had spent all day hiking through the Kansas winter time looking for the perfect shrub, paying way too much to have the full experience and cut their own tree.

But Castiel had smiled delicately as they trudged through the iciness with windburned cheeks and frozen together eyelashes, mitten-clad hands carrying the dull ax and a scratchy scarf that was double wrapped around his magnificent, elongated neck. There was a hat on his head too, covering the tips of his frosty earlobes, cable knit with thick magenta yarn and a bushy tangerine rim that shields his unkempt eyebrows. Mary had dumped it at the bunker before leaping into that fucking alternate dimension. Anyway, since neither Dean nor Sam would be caught dead in such an ugly hat, Castiel had diplomatically adopted the obnoxious thing and wore it everywhere.

Sam had marched over to the biggest tree in the lot, patting the limbs ritualistically and squeeing like a little girl with a huge ass smile on his face.

Jack had opted to say in the Impala, a calculated move that Dean is obscenely jealous of when he realizes how hard cutting a tree down is.

Apparently, the chosen sapling was a fifteen-foot Austrian pine, worth one hundred and forty dollars. And Castiel had bumped his head against Dean’s shoulder, good-naturedly, and started humming quietly _Away_ in _a Manager_ , an enthusiastic skip to his step. Castiel loved Christmas with an intensity that Dean didn’t really understand but cherished enough to permit the bunker to look and smell like Santa’s workshop.

They strapped the thing on top of the Impala with a thin and mangled tarp, the item they usually wrap dead bodies in, as the only protection against scratches to her paint job. There was a scuff on the hood where Sam accidentally let the tree fall when he was trying to get it onto the roof. When they get back in the bunker the doorway into the war room is too small and it takes forty minutes longer than necessary to puzzle piece the bush into the room. Setting it up wasn’t that big of a deal, luckily, but Sam whining about them making their own decorations was.

Castiel, a verbatim angel on the top of the tree, was immune to the arts and crafts time Sam had attempted to pull. 

Even Jack, who had only been alive for a few months, wasn't born yesterday.

The kid had ducked into his room as soon as Sam pulled out the glue gun, mumbling something incoherent about a show he's watching. 

Good for them, but that meant that Dean was stuck threading popcorn and cutting out shitty snowflakes with Samantha for two hours. Five minutes in and he had already stabbed himself with the sewing needle more times than the popcorn, blood dripping onto the table and soaking into the pure white microwavable snack. He gives up on them without much of an argument from Sam but then is put on snowflake duty. And just because no snowflake looked alike didn't excuse the fugly mess of paper that Dean's snowflakes turned out to be. He would feel embarrassed, but Sam had looked so damn pleased with those hideous things. Hanging them on the tree like a proud mother putting her kid's school work on the fridge door.

He exhales, hearing the abysmal fruitcake thump around in the trunk as he whips into a curve.

Dean caught wind of this case two days ago, sitting at the kitchen table with fluffy sock and oversized sweatpants. Sipping peppermint flavored coffee that Castiel requested them to get, munching on a slice of gingerbread and cutting up solid cranberry sauce. Dean rubs his eyes and yawned; his jaw popping and his eardrums stretching. His computer dings, interrupting the easy-going shuffle of festive tunes fleeing his speakers. One of the automatic searches they set up, left over from Charlie that essentially scanned everything online for possible jobs with a close-fitting algorithm, had found some easy going salt and burn that made Dean a tad sentimental.

It was almost Christmas, though, and roping Sam into leaving the bunker was going to be hard but he suspected that the simplicity of the hunt would help sell it.

An old woman, Gertrude Webber, claimed that her attic was haunted. All the Christmas decorations she had brought down were floating around and causing general mischief. The wreath tried strangling a kid walking up to her door, circling around the paperboy’s neck and shrinking. He almost died, lips turning a bright shade of blue as he was abnormally asphyxiated, thankfully Gertrude was carving up leftover Thanksgiving turkey and cut the Boy Scout free. 

The entire hunt sounds hysterical, and Dean had grinned the entire time he pitches it. Castiel smiles at him, lustrously, and pats his shoulder; sparks igniting where his caress existed. He had been watching Gossip Girl when Dean had rushed into the war room with a gigantic smirk on his face, squawking on about the Grade A hunt they need to go on, Castiel’s thumbs twiddling and face pensive as he observed the peak of humanity in the form of television. His wardrobe consisting of cotton soft sweatpants and a novelty tee-shirt Sam had bought off eBay with _[First, I need coffee](http://www.sorananistor.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/CIA_5569.jpg)_ printed directly on the chest.

Sam was sitting next to him, Jack had hauled his hair into a French braid after watching a tutorial on YouTube and Castiel had applied an egg-white mask on his face he claimed he was just testing after seeing a Cosmopolitan article. Sam, happy with the pampering, was reading some Shakespeare-Nicholas Sparks shit that had a picture of a half-naked man looking dreamily at his harlequin girl with eye gorging cleavage.

Jack, once again, was watching some Japanese cartoons in his room. Fucking off after hearing Dean say the words _so get this._  

As he waited for their reactions, his eyes flit over to Castiel's, everything felt hot.

If Sam hadn’t been in the room, if it had just been the two of them with the decadent smell of peppermint and cinnamon in the air and cheesy Christmas decorations strewn around the bunker— silver and gold tinsel draped around the staircase and nauseating chili pepper lights positioned unsystematically into the library, Dean might’ve been stupid and aimed to close the distance between their mouths. He would’ve pressed firmly against Castiel’s opulent scarlet-stained lips, savored the candy cane hot chocolate Castiel was drinking and the cherry pie he was picking at. He would’ve surged his tongue against the seam of Castiel’s lips, sliding his tongue into the blistering wet ecstasy of Castiel’s mouth and savored the divine flavor he’d been craving for years.

But the Sasquatch was sitting there with his signature bitch face, dog-earing the trashy romance novel and grouching about how they wouldn’t make it back home for Christmas Eve if they went on a hunt.

After groaning at the nerd’s reluctance, he had looked at Castiel expectantly. And like clockwork, the angel turned his stunning perfectly acted melancholy eyes at Sam and gave him a pouty lip. He claimed that Dean was right, this hunt would be the last they’d take of the year and Dean would get out his stir-crazy cooped up jitters.

It sounded very convincing, like a lawyer swaying a courtroom. Sam caved, lips tilted into an unimpressed frown and stress wrinkles gathering at the corner of his eyes, not skimping on the bitching the entire time they researched. Twenty minutes of simple googling revealed that the ghost was probably Gertrude’s house sitter. The guy had a heart attack while trying to fend off a robber and was haunting the poor old lady, set on vengeance against her for some disparate spectral reason.

Sam grunted when Jack asked if he was supposed to come along. "Do you want to? It's your decision."

Jack had looked overjoyed at the prospect of variety. "I'm in the middle of Yuri on Ice. I'd rather finish it." 

Castiel looked forlorn, "you'll be ahead of me, now. I haven't watched the sixth episode."

"Then you'll have to hurry back," Jack replied, attaching a quickly yet faltering, "dad."

He and Castiel had been tasked to protect Gertrude while Sam had salt and burned the bones, and the extent of that was swinging an iron crowbar through the ghost’s hostile face while she applauded them on with adorable old lady cheers. He couldn’t stop smiling the entire time, gripping Castiel’s shoulder through his trenchcoat as they watched the spirit combust in a fiery inferno. As they waited for Sam to pick them up in the Impala, Gertrude gave them earnest hugs and made them drink warm milk. The entire time she called them such a cute pair, an adorable twosome, and commented that they must’ve known each other for a while. Dean didn’t have the heart to correct her, and Castiel must not have realized her implications, either way, she looked at them fondly then threw a godawful fruitcake at them. 

Said fruitcake is possibly denting the trunk with how loud the walloping is, becoming a drum solo to his music as they take a particularly curvy side road.

Dean looks in the rearview mirror, catching Castiel’s hooded eyes and shy mien, he quickly turns back at the road.

Sam is passed out beside him, along laceration down his cheek and an ugly bruise forming on his neck. Looks like a chokehold. Ghost must’ve fazed back to its body as Sam was digging, or something else threw him around. Never the less, they ganked Casper and nothing is stopping them from celebrating Christmas back at the bunker. He sends futile thanks towards the sky that they’re making it home for the holiday, he’ll at least get to give both of them their presents on actual Christmas day this year. He bought the Sasquatch a mug off Amazon a couple weeks ago, barely apprehending the package before Sam had seen it. The mug itself looked innocent, all white without text and completely harmless, but when someone took a drink out of it they revealed the bottom which stated,[ _I'm a dick_. ](http://bumocusal.weebly.com/uploads/1/1/2/6/112637465/eat-a-dick_1_orig.png)

For Jack, after scrolling through some forums for parents giving gifts to their teenagers, he settled on getting the kid a cell phone. 

Castiel was different. What could an actual angel of the Lord want? At least with the kid, he could guess that any normal human teenage gift would work, but with Castiel, it was a different ballpark. He went through many options; a cassette player for all the mixtapes Dean had made him, a couple of Dean's favorite books (Slaughterhouse-Five, Animal Farm, and Soul Enchilada), and he had even considered jewelry. Maybe he could give Castiel his old silver ring he used to wear, or the "samulet" Chuck had given back to them. But as each possibility entered, nothing seemed right. Until he really thought about it, the most basic gift he could give was himself. God, how vain he was, after all these years of platonic comfortableness he was going to ask Castiel to be his this Christmas. 

Still, there was a small part of him that feared chickening out or not being able to go through with the plan. So, as a backup gift, Dean bought Castiel a hunters journal. Tightly bound with cowhide leather and full of one hundred thick, durable pages. The thing cost seventy dollars, plus shipping, but the quality was amazing and the design on the front really sold it.  It was monogrammable, with the initials _C.W._ embroidered across the front and a personal message on the first page. The words read as follows: 

> _T_ o _everything, there is a season, yet our friendship has passed the trial of time. Buddy, I can't describe how much you mean to me. You're family, Cas. And I'll never be able to thank you for everything you've done for me and Sam. I hope this gift has brightened your day, a change since you're usually my sunshine._
> 
> _From the bottom of my heart and the depths of my soul,_
> 
> _Dean W._

Dean had personalized it as much as he could before it was shipped out, the message finished with a little devils trap.

He sighs focusing back on the road to merge onto I-70 east and cut off an annoying Pontiac Aztek that had not moved to the other lane. He almost felt bad, but the shitty choice of car drained all his compassion. And the pipsqueak car horn didn't add to the absent sympathy. It did make Sam shift in his sleep, the Sasquatch letting out a breathy snore before falling ceremoniously back into his deep sleep. Dean takes a peek into the rearview mirror, meeting Castiel's eyes for the second time. But now, with only the rumbling of the Impala as their company, he doesn't look away. 

Castiel was wearing his usual trenchcoat combo, but instead of a button-down shirt and tie, he's adorning an ugly Christmas sweater. He's also wearing his ugly pink hat, coupled with mittens Dean didn't know where he'd picked up. Also, below Dean's line of vision, Castiel has on the clunkiest snowboots in the history of winter wear. They've got tuffs of fur sticking out of them and little pom-poms on the back.

The moderate falling of snow hasn't let up since they left Gertrudes, like a cascade of dawn-tinted bougainvillea, the flurries sticking to his windshield and sealing up his ability to see the road. Even as the brilliant blue sky turned a violent violet and the sun dipped below the horizon, the snow didn't falter. He looks at the backseat again, seeing Castiel had pressed his face to the window pane, looking at the winter wonderland in fascinated wonder. The snow had to be two feet deep at this point, piling on the banks of the road a pristine white against the abyssal black of the asphalt.

He thinks about taking the next exit, turning towards Sioux Falls and maybe spending the holiday with Jody and the girls, have Jack teleport his moody teenage self there and spend the Christmas with everybody together for once. But Last he heard Claire was closing in on a ghoul in Montana and Alex was spending time in L.A. exploring herself, as Jody so eloquently put it. There's no way they'd be able to meet up with them. So he resides to staring at Castiel in the mirror, the tension growing each time the angel looks at him.

He feels rapidly thankful that Sammy is unconscious beside him and not seeing this gooey affectionate expression embellish his face. 

Then like some sick joke, the fruitcake slides around again, beating around blatantly and rousing Sam like a bad omen.

"How long have we been driving?" Sam asks, sleepily. Nose wrinkling endearingly. 

Dean clears his throat, looking down at the clock on Baby's dash. "A couple hours. You hungry? There's a Biggerson's off the next exit."

He turns off the ramp, pulling into the town. They're in the part of the country where the ground is flat, no mountains or hills. The landscape glowed peachy orange under the burnt sky, white snow completely painted in like a coloring book. There wasn't a single landmark other than three tiny stores and a supermarket, everything pristine and untouched by city exhaust and corruption. He slowed down to make the road last longer. 

"Ew," Sam responds, making a sickened face. "Ever since that gray ooze came out of your burger, I've sworn off of that joint."

Castel pipes up from the back seat, "they've renovated since the Leviathan. Apparently, they've brought back their garlic knots."

All Dean can picture is a grumpy Castiel sitting in front of the TV being forced to watch commercials between scenes of Pretty Little Liars. He's probably snuggled up with a blanket, the one Dean had given him that was soft and blue. There was one worn patch that had become threadbare, presumably since the blanket was over sixty years old, but the rest of it coiled gingerly around Castiel's shoulders. He probably wasn't wearing any pants either, underwear slack on his hips and oversized tee-shirt hanging loosely and exposing his jutting collarbone.

"You know with our TV package you can skip the commercials," Dean reminds, earning a disgruntled huff from the backseat.

"I admire the effort that went into the advertisements, Dean. I don't wish to skip them." Castiel stares defiantly at Dean through the rearview mirror.

Maybe when they get home he'll scratch out "you're usually my sunshine" and replace it with "you're annoyingly exasperating". There was a time that unsufferable sass would've angered Dean, back when he didn't understand his feelings and thought Castiel just made him furious. Now he understands, Castiel is everything Dean could've wished for. Snark and all, Dean adored the angel and he couldn't wait until Christmas.

Sam exhales theatrically, getting their attention, "as interesting as this conversation is, I'm being bored back to sleep."

Dean throws up his hands, grabbing the wheel before it swerves. "There's also a Fat Mack's Rib Shack and a Gas-N-Sip. Take your pick."

"Can Fat Mack's do take out? I forget," Sam asks, stomach rumbling.

"Yeah," Dean replies, the decision made. "I'll get us a bunch of ribs, then."

He pulls into the parking lot, grimacing at the neon sign with the evil pig waving menacingly back and forth like a swishing cat's tail. The windows were fogged up, ice crystalizing around their trims from the winter weather. The small open sign fluttered against the door, swinging dangerously as a gust of wind takes flight through the dinky car park. Turning off the Impala's engine, Dean rests against the seat as he pulls out his wallet and thumbs through the various bills and stolen credit cards. Most of them were expiring within the new year, making it a perfect time to purge on ribs. He knows Sam's order by heart; A large sprite, slaw and salad combo, with vinegar marinated ribs. _But what does Castiel want?_  

And that's the million dollar question; What does Castiel want? Not just at Fat Mack's Rib Shack, but in regards to Dean.

He relaxed further into his seat, the car starting to lose it's warmth as the heater has been turned off. Sam and Cas stay quiet and still in their seats, not interrupting the stagnant atmosphere descending in the car. The sun fully set and the moon shines with enough vigor to cast a shadow on the right side of the Impala. It wasn't a full moon, Dean realizes, waned into a narrow crescent yet still able to adequately illuminate the dim night. Instead of pavement, the entire ground was slick with hardened snow.

Would Castiel reciprocate his confession?  When Dean pulls him close, pressing his cheek against Castiel's and murmuring his admission into his ear, will he be rejected? With their fingertips touching and their feet intertwined, Dean shivering but not from the cold. Pressing his nose into the dip in Castiel's shoulder, taking a deep breath and enjoying it for the first time. He tries to imagine what Castiel will smell like; Snow-cold and festive to match the bunker, or will he have his own scent? And when he does so, will Castiel be disgusted, pushing him away with a constipated expression on his face, yelling at Dean for even attempting to get his affections returned? The possibilities run rampant, only receding as Sammy speaks.

"What should Dean get you, Cas?" Sam yawns around his brother's name, still tired and groggy from that disrupted nap. 

Castiel looks clueless, "I'm unsure, this isn't a place I've eaten at before."

"Just go in with Dean, then. Get a good look at the menu," Sam suggests, then adds, "better hurry, they close in thirty."

Hickory smoke and molasses. Those were the two smells Dean noticed as he opened the door. Castiel sniffed the air too, apparently catching the wafting aroma from the rib shack. Fat Mack's specializing in Kansas City barbeque sauce, but housing the North Carolinian as a flavor contrast. The two walked off into the darkness, toward the restaurant. Close enough to brush shoulders with every step. Dean yanked open the door, heat rushing out and beating onto their faces.

One look around the restaurant and you could tell the owners were into a western traditional Christmas; Nativity scene on display, Star of Bethlehem hanging from the ceiling, and a sign that said _remember the true meaning of Christmas._

Castiel shifted awkwardly beside him, looking at the "heavenly host" singing to the shepherds _._

"We didn't sing to the sheepherders," Castiel hums to him, voice low and pretty. "We scared them with our true forms and burned their eyes out."

"You were there," Dean says evenly. "You were in the manger with Jesus?"

Nodding, Castiel tucks his hands into his pockets, "he was a vessel. Micheals first sure vessel. He was crucified before he accepted."

"Are you serious?" Dean asks, loud enough to get a waitresses attention. 

"We rescued him from Hell, like you," Castiel continues, nonchalantly, "resurrected but Lucifers vessel hadn't been born yet. That's when we figured out it wasn't time yet. Zachariah wasn't pleased, went around killing all the disciples that followed Jesus. Raphael punished him, as he killed the Apostle, John. He was a prophet, saw the end times and essentially showed us you. Dean Winchester, the righteous man."

The waitress intervenes, lips pressed together as she hears Castiel's words. "Are you guys going to order, or?" 

"Yes," Dean mutters, sending her a reassuring smile. "You guys do take out, right? We want to get this to go."

"Definitely," she gestures towards the cash register. It has a cross and a pig on the front. "Let's get you two a menu."

Her apron had _Merry Christmas_ on the front of it, red and frilly. There was a hideous stain near the bottom, cut off in a straight line and resembling coffee. Probably was leaning over a table and transferred a spill onto her otherwise pristine gear. He squints at her nametag— Peggy. She has fair blonde hair combed all up into a bun and smeared lipstick. Dean looks at her face and wonders if she could be an angel's vessel, if her body was made to hold the pure energy. He's been thinking about that kind of thing for a while now, ever since they've found out that angels were going extinct. Would new angels need vessels? The thought made him twitch.

Castiel grabs the plastic menu she hands out to him, scanning the items in interest, "what is the Christmas special?"

Peggy points at a poster above them, covered in pictures of food. "It's a rack of ribs marinated in apple cider, cranberry sauce, and mulled wine. There's an option of gingerbread or bread pudding on the side. Also, hot chocolate on the house. How about it, angel face?" 

Overwhelmed, Castiel just agrees. "That sounds pleasant. Maybe soy instead of regular milk, my vessel is averse to dairy."

" _Suuuuure_ ," Peggy gives Castiel a bewildered glare, "bread pudding or gingerbread?" 

Castiel sends Dean a shaky stare, making him step in, "get the gingerbread, man. Bread pudding can be gross."

"Okay," Castiel sighs, relieved.  "I shall have gingerbread on the side." 

Turning to Dean. "Your turn, green eyes."

He rattles off Sam's order, glancing over the menu before deciding on his own meal. "Also, I'll have a medium cherry coke with extra ice, two racks of barbeque marinated ribs with extra sauce on the side, and some potato salad. Maybe a small hot chocolate, too, if you have those little marshmallows to put in it. If not, don't bother." 

Peggy nods, scratching the orders down and shoving it through to the kitchen, yelling, "four ribs; vinegar, two BBQ, and a Christmas special. Potato and slaw sides."

The shout startles Castiel, who is completely submerged by the diner etiquette. Dean hauls out his wallet, "how much do we owe you?"

"Thirty-nine dollars and fifty-six cents," she reads off the register, pausing to ask, "would you like to donate to—" 

"No," Dean shakes his head, feeling like a piece of shit but not having enough money left on the stolen card. "Sorry, I donate through the mail and uh—"

She hands him his receipts, smoothly, "I'll call your number when your order is ready. There's a booth at the door that's empty, you can wait there."

He grabs the paper and drags a puzzled Castiel to the booth, sagging as his back touches the seat. Castiel didn't know much about human customs, didn't understand the awkward conversation that just went down. Dean rubs his hand down his face, unsettled by the waitress. Whoever the waitress had tried to get him to donate to, it made him feel like a garbage human being. But Dean shouldn't feel like that, he pretty much saved the lives of all these people. He could get away with not giving once. Castiel presses his knee, from across the table, into Deans. It's solid, real enough to ground him. 

"How are you, Dean?" Castiel leans forward to touch their hands together. 

He doesn't have an honest answer for that, but the impression of Castiel's skin touching his is lustrous. "I'm fine, Cas. Really."

"You've just been—" Castiel struggles for a word, belatedly landing on, " _iffy_. Since we left Gertrude's house." 

"Just excited for Christmas," knocking his knuckles against Castiel's. 

It wasn't technically a lie, he was excited about Christmas but that did leave out the main motivator for that excitement. He was nervous, practically hyping himself up as each minute inched closer to when he would give himself to Castiel. And as each moment passed, another doubt climbed into his mind. Castiel was so wonderful and pretty and dorky and smart, and a whole bunch of things Dean wanted. _He needed._

"Today is the eve of Christmas," Castiel notes, the table wobbles as he leans his body on it. Then, "Christ wasn't really born in December."

"More biblical facts, huh?" Dean half-heartedly teases, enjoying hearing Castiel talk about his past. 

"Yes, Dean. The Christmas you celebrate originated from a pagan holiday."  

"So when was Jesus actually born?" Dean asks, admittingly charmed.

"He was born June. On a Thursday." Castiel looks vaguely smug, a scanty quirk to the right corner of his lips. "Just like you were born on a Thursday."

Dean smiles a little, going to correct him, "no, Cas. I was born on a Wednesday. At about eleven o'clock at night."

"Not in the time zone I was in," Castiel replies. "It was Thursday morning, beautiful and sunny. All because the righteous man had been born."

It was surprising to hear Castiel talk about this, his time as an angel. Dean longed to hear more, caught between regret and fascination. The Castiel that sat across from him now was a sad shadow of the angel he had been. Dean barely recognized him some days; face riddled with wrinkles, some grey hairs growing in his sideburns, and not to mention his eyes. They were once full of light, bright and full of his angelic radiance. But now those eyes remain dull. And the sad fact is, Dean made him this way. Castiel fell, drained from his grace and heavens light, because of Dean. And it was painful to see, especially so clearly on his friends face. 

Still, Castiel is the type of angel— no, the type of man who can be hurt and torn to shreds but can still look at you and smile and forgive.

"So, where are we going to put that fucking fruitcake?" Dean changes the subject. 

"I was thinking we could rewrap it and give it to Sam," Castiel responses, straight-faced.

It's such dry wit, such a Castiel joke, that Dean can't help laughing. Full body laughing. Doubling into himself and bursting. It was a foreign sound, the last time he let himself laugh was a long time ago. Probably at some stupid joke Sammy told, just giving a small chuckle. This was different. It was like breathing for the first time, lungs expanding and head dizzy. He was usually such a serious person. Molded that way after each traumatic blow; John dying, Sam dying, Bobby dying, Charlie dying, and Castiel dying. Even when he felt happy his face was stationary. Now he laughed, eyes misting uncontrollably and barely able to breathe.

Isn't it ironic how Castiel makes his heart beat so fast that he doesn't want it to beat at all?

"Dean," the name is said softly, Castiel's voice effortless. "I'm so happy to be alive with you."

The words bring a heat to the mountains of his cheeks, Dean instantly calms down. "Yeah, me too."

"I know we've never talked about it," Castiel continues, eyes never leaving Dean's face, "but I need to tell you about—"

"Buddy," Dean interrupts, taking hold of Castiel's hand. "I know."

Castiel seems disconcerted, lips parted, "you know?"

"Yeah," Dean confirms, squeezing his palm. The walls of the restaurant blur behind Castiel's head as Dean focuses on the angel's face, his furrowed brow, and pouting lips. "I've been dead a few times myself. It's normal to feel unbalanced. Like things changed while you were gone but you stayed the same. Time froze for you, an unmoving energy during death, while all your friends moved on. But buddy, it's not like that. Sam and I, we both know that feeling. It's great to have you back and you don't need to feel alone." 

Although clearly touched, Castiel shakes his head, "no, Dean. It's actually—"

"Order up," the waitress calls, "number eleven." 

Dean doesn't have to check to know that's their number; they're the only ones here. He's springing out of the booth before he knows it, grabbing the two brown paper bags tightly in his left hand. Dean looks over at Castiel, who hasn't moved an inch. The waitress smiles politely at him, handing him his three cups in a drink carrier. The two hot chocolates have a sleeve on them as well. Turning towards the door, Dean is relieved to see Castiel holding it open for him. The awkward moment had apparently passed, Dean trying to avoid any conversations that could jeopardize his Christmas present.   

They walk across the parking lot, everything that was compelling them to talk earlier had dissolved. 

His teeth chatter as the winter seeps through his jacket and into his skin, chilling him bone deep. It's so cold that his breath is puffing in front of his face. Shivers ran up his arms as he braced himself from the breeze. The only warmth is from the bagged ribs he's holding, pressed into his side and acting like a heating pad. Castiel is a few steps behind him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his trenchcoat and face turned down to avoid windburn. They make it back to the car, Dean opening the back door for Castiel to climb in and hold the food and drinks.

Back behind the wheel, leather creaking under Dean's knees, he starts the engine back up and glances over to Sam. The nerd is sleeping again, a little drool on the corner of his mouth. Dean just smiles, content with his favorite people, pressing his frozen fingers against the heat blowing out of the Impala's fan. Castiel passes his hot chocolate up to him, not bothering with the food until Sam wakes up. Sipping down the drink, Dean flinches as he realizes it's too hot, scalding even. But pressing on, and after a few minutes of silence where the car's cabin gets warm, he can enjoy the sugary flavor streaming down his throat. Sam makes a mumbling noise next to him, sniffing loudly and turning his head towards the food. 

He shifts into reverse, pulling out of the little town and blending back onto the highway. The traffic had subsided since they pulled off, the moon hanging massively in the sky and casting eerie obscurations over the crumbling asphalt.

On I-70 west, Dean switches lanes to move around a particularly slow SUV, he hands his drink back to Castiel after taking one last sip. The drink is very sweet, so sweet it hurts his teeth. He remembers the last time that happened, Jack trying to get Dean to like him and offering to make him coffee, emptying the entire sugar shaker into the black java. Dean had immediately spit it out, it was so syrupy. The look on Jack's face was enough to make him take another disgusting sip. 

"The food is getting cold," Castiel says, loud like thunder in the hushed cabin. "We should eat soon."

Dean is already turning off onto the shoulder of the road before Castiel can finish his sentence, parking and turning up the radio. He doesn't want to talk to Castiel anytime soon, so the speakers pulsate with the rhythm. Vibrating unrelentingly. It's loud enough to wake Sam up, who blinks drowsily at Dean while wiping his eyes.  

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey,” Dean shouts over Zeppelin, slapping Sam's arm. "Time to get up, Bitch." 

"Jerk," Sam rasps, sitting up and taking the food Castiel gives him.

Digging into their ribs, the three eat in the silence between the drums of The Lemon Song. 

And it feels great. This little moment, this little thing connecting them all, it feels enormous. It's all Dean's ever wanted, the tree of them together like this. Maybe with Jack shoved in the back too. And when Dean finishes his ribs, licking the leftover sauce off his fingers, Castiel leans forward, chin on the shoulder of Dean's seat. His hot breath in Dean's ear and he's humming along to the song. Dean's lips, the ones that too relaxed to fully pull into a smile, sneak into a lazy grin. 

How he wants to be able to wake up next to Castiel in the mornings, kissing his soft lips, holding him tight and pulling the blankets closer around them as Dean goes back to sleep in his arms. He wonders if this passion is killing Castiel like it's killing him? If the feelings are engulfing Castiel wholly and leaving him wanting and craving more even though there was barely anything given, to begin with. His heart is so worn.

Castiel returns the look. He smiles like he’s at ease, that big wide gummy grin that makes him so beautiful.

Arousal fills him suddenly, like a cup of water overflowing. 

The thought of them fucking in his car reaches his mind. Propelling against each other, feeling each other. Never making the exact moves twice. Already Dean's brain is ablaze, Castiel is his angel, his angel with fingertips of fire. He imagines Castiel entering him again and again and again.

Sam sucks his sprite through a straw, annoyingly boisterous, "How long until we get back to the bunker? I need to text Jack."

Dean blinked out of his pornographic daydream. "A few hours if I straddle the speed limit."

"Maybe you could call him, put him on speaker," Castiel sounds timid, like he's embarrassed to even suggest the idea. 

"Yeah, I bet he'd like that," Sam agrees, switching off the radio and plunging them into static muteness. He pulls out his phone and types in his password. His background was a candid shot of Dean and Mary leaning into each other, greeting. In that picture the likeness between them was uncanny; Mary's nose, the plump of her lip, and her green eyes. The color of deep forest pools. It reflected almost exactly on Dean's face, who had been right across from her. It was like a mirror. For those reasons, Dean hated and loved that picture.

Sam presses call on Dean's other-other phones contact; they'd left it with Jack for emergencies and to check in.

The kid picks up on the last ring, out of breath, "sorry. I left the phone in the kitchen. I had to run." 

"Couldn't you have just teleported?" Dean hints, chuckling.

Jack waited a full ten seconds before replying, managing to sound like some kind of moody teenager, "probably."

"How are you, Jack?" Castiel asked, pensive. 

"I am great, Castiel." Jack goes from angsty teen to English professor in a snap, "the bunker has provided exceptional comfort to me. Since you've been gone I have eaten three apples, two bananas, and one cup of ramen. The noodles were bland until I added the powdered chicken packet to it. Also, the third toilet in the bathroom flooded when I tried to flush the banana peels and apple cores. I used the plunger, but the water had already overwhelmed the bowl. Otherwise, my time has been spent watching Youtube videos."

It was information overload, but Dean caught the important bit, "you tried to flush that shit down the toilet?" 

Sam ends up talking over Dean, "did you watch cat videos?" 

"No," Jack becomes his _no one loves me or understands me_  alter-ego again, "I watched My Chemical Romance music videos." 

"Did you at least mop up the water?" Dean urges, worried that he was the only one taking this seriously. 

It's Castiel's turn to disregard him, asking Jack, "did you finish the anime we were watching?"

"Yes," Jack responds, "it had a disappointing yet pleasing ending."

"Don't tell me," Castiel says hastily, "I'm against spoilers. Are we going to start Food Wars next?" 

"So is there just a foot of water in the bathroom?" Dean asks himself because no one is listening to him. 

"We could spend tomorrow watching it," Jack comments, kind of excitedly. "In your room, Cas— dad." 

Dean has had enough, "I'm not getting stuck cleaning up again. You clog the toilet, you clean the mess." 

Sam interrupts them all, flustered, "actually, guys. Dean and I usually watch Die Hard on Christmas. We should, uh— do that."

Their best family tradition was saving each another, but he guesses settling down with a bowl of popcorn and some flat beer to watch the best Christmas movie in existence was pretty prominent too. He's not sure who started it, whether it was simple channel surfing or one of them purposefully put the tape into the VCR, but they both knew it was officially Christmas when Bruce Willis saved a bunch of hostages. 

"I get to be included?" Jack sounds heartbreakingly small. Not like the powerful being he was.

"Always," Dean affirms, making sure to look at Castiel. "Both of you are Winchesters. Honestly, I'd be offended if you didn't watch Die Hard with us."

Castiel smiles, delicate and pretty. Very pretty, if Dean was being accurate. His teeth staying hidden, but plush lips stretch astray.

Butterflies rise in the pit of his stomach, and he can't look away. How he lived before he met Castiel? In moments like these, nothing came to mind. He can only think subjectively, without emotional attachment. Once Castiel had meant nothing to him, once Dean wasn't even aware of the angel's existence. Now Castiel was all that was in his mind. It's strange how a person can mean nothing to you but in a matter of hours, days, weeks, months they could mean the world to you. Even if they beat you, heal you, and beat you again. Even if they said shit like, "I don't serve man and I certainly don't serve you", or betray you to work with Crowley, or become fucking Lucifer. 

Today, on Christmas Eve, with Dean talking to a half angel kid a cell phone, Sammy drinking a sprite with crusty sleep in his eyes, and Castiel smiling like Dean hung the moon in the sky, everything feels complete. Dean knows he's got a rough exterior, he's hard to love. He knows Sam only stays around because they're brothers because they were raised with the notion that you don't quit your family. 

There are some days where Dean is happy, stifled giggles pressed against his hand and scattered affection he gives voluntarily and then begs for. He's goofy and cheery, whistling while he fries up eggs in the kitchen or humming along to Metallica while he potters under Baby's hood. But there are other days where there's nothing he wants to do more than curl under his blankets, be quiet and lie in bed. He wants to press his face into his pillow or mattress and welcome the indentation and that's all. Castiel hasn't lived in the bunker with them long enough to pick up on this, and all Dean wants to do now is shout _don't give up on me._  

"We'll be home soon, Jack," Castiel speaks towards the cell's microphone. "Dean thinks he can get us home in a couple hours if he rushes."

"See you then," Jack says, hanging up without warning.

"That was rude," Castiel comments, then looks at Dean with a strange expression, "is this how you feel when I hang up without sharing goodbyes?"

Dean feels his eyes swell with tender sentiments, running his tongue over his front teeth meticulously, "yeah, basically."

Sam collects all their garbage, putting it in the two brown bags the food originally came in. He points towards a gas station sign, claiming the next spot to stop is miles away. They are currently in the middle of nowhere, Dean realizes. It's a miracle they got service. It's a bonafide Gas-N-Sip, which brings up all kinds of uncomfortable emotions mainly with Cas sitting right behind him. Sam gestures at the low needle on the Impala's dash, "we need to pull off for gas soon, right? And this trash needs to get tossed." 

"Maybe we can get some snacks there, too," Dean fusses, pressing a hand to his stomach. "I'm still hungry."

"I've still got leftover gingerbread," Castiel volunteers, "do you want one, Dean?"

"Yes," Dean agrees quickly, reached behind him to grab the sweet. 

Their fingers brush. _Everything burns._ Sparking like misdirected electricity, leaking into his being. Castiel comforting him without meaning to. The heat from his fingers creeps into Dean's cognizance. In the diner, where they were alone and loose, the touching was incredible. Now, beneath Sam's harsh stare like a magnifying glass, he wants to pull his hand away. But at the same time, he wants to lean forward and kiss Castiel's nose, cheek, and everywhere besides his lips. He wants to enjoy the intimacy, grab the fingers that brush innocently against his and kiss them, too.  

The gingerbread is shaped like trees, green icing piped messily on the top.  

That familiar smell reached his nose, the perfect blend of spicy and sweet. His teeth broke in the slightly crisp outside and then met the inside which was soft yet dense. Crumbling down his chin, Dean sighed lowly in content pleasure before taking another mouthful. Dean winds up eating the entire thing in three huge bites, all moisture absent from his mouth. He finishes off his hot chocolate, shoving it with all the other waste. Maybe it's because Castiel gave it to him, but it was the best gingerbread he's had in his life.

They're on the road again, a fresh covering of snow clinging to the road. Snow topped street lamps and all the snowplows work erased.

And as they drove their tracks immediately filled up. Like the snow was pulling him forward with one hand and erasing his engravings with the other. It was like the street had been put to bed, hushed under nature's frigid blanket of snow. The snow exhibited the temperature drop, the Impala's heater not able to keep up with the sudden below-freezing decline. The absence of warmth is light on Dean's face, softer than the kisses Mary used to press against his chubby freckled cheeks, and just as cold as the memories had become. With the nighttime adhering to the car, the snow falls heavily, clumps of fluffy flakes descending with vitality. 

He couldn't make out a foot in front of the car. Just a sheet of whiteness. Wipers flying frantically over the windshield. 

"Is this a blizzard?" Castiel teeth chattering alike hypothermia.

What residual heat they had from the Impala's heater was gone, and now the tip of his nose was numb. Dean wishes he had stuffed the quilt Clarie had bought them in the trunk, the three of them could pull off and cuddle together for body heat. Finally, like winning a cutthroat battle, Baby's fans let out a disgruntled groan and spit out small whiffs of heat. It's better than nothing, Dean surmises, covered in chill bumps and lips pale as they lose their pink hue. 

Sam answers, bitting against the chilliness, "yes. It might get to the point where we can't drive." 

Castiel let's out a tiny snivel, one Dean barely catches. It breaks his heart.

He tries to reassure, fake cheerful, "I have chains in the back, buddy. We'll make it home. I promise. If I have to dig to get to the tires. For you."

The words sound more amorous than Dean had meant them to, out in the open and daring next to a frumpled up Sam. The trepidation is an invisible demon sitting heavily on his chest, affecting his breathing. But Sam pays him no attention. Instead, he looks out the window, at the storm, making Dean focus back on the windshield and is upset to find nothing has changed. Outside rages a blizzard so strong that even though flakes are dropping, the air looks almost still. The reason he's still driving, although a slow ten miles an hour, is the headlights shining enough to see an imprecise translation of the road.

Dean had been driving since he was old enough to shoot a gun, and that was biased since John raised them. He had driven in every state in America by this point, crossing each border multiple times and cruising down every highway. He was experienced enough not to be scared by a blizzard. If Dean could drive to his brother's death in Stull cemetery, he could drive a couple miles in a snowstorm. Said snowstorm had actually lightened up, he was able to make out the yellow lines on the road. Thankfully he hadn't come across any gamblers on the road, he trusted himself but not other drivers. 

He didn't want to scratch the Impala right before Christmas— it would ruin the festive mood. 

When they pull into the Gas-N-Sip, the Impala driving on fumes, Dean parks next to the only ethanol free pump. He only trusts pure gas for his Baby, even at the ten cent price difference. He cuts the engine and pulls out his billfold. He's got twenty in cash and maybe fifty left on his Visa. _Maybe_ fifty. The card could've dinged back at Fat Mack's, cut off now. His other cards are under different names, if he took the chance with the Visa he couldn't try the others unless he wanted the cashier to call the cops.

Weighing his options, he picks American Express. It's under Hector Aframian.

The limit is probably one hundred at once, then the banks notified. 

"Want anything?" He directed the question to both of them, but Sam was the only one to respond.

Looking out the window at the fluffy falling snow, he turns to Dean. Firmly, "you look like you're about to pass out. I'll pump and pay."

Not going to look a gift moose in the mouth, he readily agreed, "sure. But that's because I've been awake. No time to nap like little Sammy."

Sam grabs the credit card and the trash, snarking, "I'm not the one that played house with Cas and Gertrude. That ghost kicked my ass."

"That's what happens when you're out of practice," Dean jokes, ducking to avoid Sam's swinging arm. "Get me some pie while you're in there." 

"You want anything, Cas?" Sam asks, rolling his eyes at the mention of pie. 

Always the polite little angel, "no thank you, Sam." 

They're alone together, again. Dean almost wonders if Sam is doing it on purpose; volunteering to salt and burn the bones, sending Castiel into Fat Mack's with him, and even pumping Baby's gas. But he doubts Sasquatch realizes, he's oblivious to things like that sometimes. He shivers as the heat starts to leave the cabin again. _Great_. He wonders how, with Castiel an arm's length away, he still feels lonely. Maybe it's the quietness, but this loneliness brings things into another range, silence is the new beginning between them. He might as well be sitting on an entirely different planet than Castiel, with the way they've not spoken to each other. 

"Are you cold?" He breaks the tension.

Castiel looks at him through the rearview mirror. "Oh. Yes."

"I can, um— come back there and help you get warm," he realizes how that sounds, tacking on, "body heat and all that jazz."

"No thank you," Castiel repeats, sadly. "I'd rather you not do anything that would make you uncomfortable."

Dean's confused, feeling like he missed something important, "why would I suggest it if it makes me uncomfortable?"

"We were both there in Fat Mack's, Dean," Castiel recapitulates, bitter. "I know you don't want this. You stopped me."

What horrible misunderstanding occurred between them that Dean didn't realize? Or maybe Dean really did say something shitty. He can't think of anything. Castiel is probably taking something out of context. The angel is always unaware of social cues and obvious reference, he probably misunderstood something and is blaming it on Dean. He turns to face Castiel over the back of the Impala's bench seat. Dean knew he'd done something pretty awful if he had to work so hard to justify it. The guilt was like gasoline being poured by a funnel down his throat, any little spark could set it on fire destroying him from the inside out, but the slow poison toxicity of it killed too.

He realizes what Castiel is talking about after seeing his heart broken expression. When they were in the booth and Castiel was going to confess something; Dean knew what was happening, but if Castiel did it first then he wouldn't be able to on Christmas. He didn't interrupt the guy's speech because he was disgusted, he just didn't want to spoil tomorrow when he gave his gift. That seems selfish, now looking at Castiel's loveless expression. Dean had been taking care of people since he was four; band-aids and bedtime stories for little Sammy, gun cleaning and hangover duty for dad. So seeing Castiel clearly distressed, Dean feels unexpectedly like a failure. 

"Don't assume shit, Cas," Dean mutters back, watching Castiel's eyes widen. "Now do you want to cuddle or not?"

"Okay," Castiel agrees, shakily.

He crawls into the back seat, jumping over the bench seat and settling into the farthest corner from Castiel. They watch each other, unsure of who should make the next move. Eventually, Castiel scoots into Dean's space. Pulling his trenchcoat off, unintentionally seductive, and dropping it over both of them. Their sides are the only thing touching, pressed together as they nestle under the beige coat. It wasn't exactly comfortable and Castiel seemed to realize that.

He leaned his head back on Dean's right side, the smell of him pleasantly stuck in Dean's nose. Shifting, his body now laying comfortable on Dean's. Head resting in the center of his chest, ear pressed against his heart. His left hand was resting on Dean's arm. They sit like that and the warmth builds between them. Castiel's ribs expand and compress with every breath. Sam comes back then, grocery bag one hand and credit card in the other. He doesn't even comment on their closeness, just opening the passenger door to throw in the snacks and shutting it again.  

Sam goes to the gas pump, and Dean wraps his arms around Castiel's shoulders. 

"Are you still cold?" He asks, soft coffee-colored hairs tickling his chin.

Castiel rubs his nose against Dean's shirt, "no. But I'm afraid exhaustion is about to overtake my vessel."

"Well, we've both been awake for over twenty hours," Dean rationalizes, "maybe we should—"

Noticing the weird cut off of words, Castiel looks up at him, "what?"

"—take a nap, let Sam drive," Dean grimaces as he finishes his sentence. Even after all these years, he'd rather no one get behind Baby's wheel.

Looking up at him with blown out blue eyes, Castiel rests his chin on Dean's pecks. "You want to take a nap with me?"

"Um," Dean starts, weakly. Why was it so hard to admit what he wanted? Castiel mistook his hesitation and began to shift off him, Dean stiffening his hold on Castiel's shoulders. He gives his best stern face, "I mean yes, dude. I want us to take a nap. _Together_. As much as I love driving, it’s getting hard to go nonstop in my old age. Sammy can take the wheel."

"If you're old, what does that make me?" Castiel snuggles closer, pressing his forehead against Dean's jugular. 

"Ancient," Dean teases, smelling the shampoo in Castiel's hair. It smell's like his  _Old Spice_ back at the bunker. Castiel must've used it. 

"I'm _ancient_?" Castiel tries to sound annoyed but he says the word like it's a badge of honor. 

Dean barely contains his smile, "you'll need dentures soon enough. Maybe a cane."

Sam crawls into the driver's seat then, digging into the plastic bag he'd stocked full of snacks, before handing Dean a _Pie-in-a-Pouch_ and Castiel a bag of chips. Normally Dean has a rule about eating in the Impala, but they already had their ribs in here so he can't complain too hard. Even if Castiel spills crumbs from his chips all over the back bench. They're still pressed against each other when Dean finishes off his pie and scoots back down in the seat, head rested against the door. Sam collects their trash again, refilling the plastic bag and tossing it into the can beside the pump. 

They pull out of the Gas-N-Sip with a full tank in the Impala and barely any snow falling. The air is still cold enough to send someone into pneumonia, but the Impala's cabin was toasty warm. Especially between Dean and Castiel's bodies. Castiel's touch made the car warmer somehow, his soft skin and the sound of his heart beating. Dean just squeezed him closer, walking the tightrope between chaste and amorous. 

The subtle rock of the Impala adds to Castiel's drowsiness and soon he's asleep in Dean's arms. 

He looks up through the windshield to see their progress. The clock on the dash said a little after ten at night. Sam was keeping to the right to stay on I-70 west, following the signs for Topeka. That means they're about two hours from the bunker. He wonders what Jack is doing, patiently awaiting their return or huddled up in his room watching more youtube videos.

Dean sucks in a harsh breath at the smoothed lines and relaxed muscles of Castiel's unconscious face. He was so beautiful. Castiel let out a little snore, cute and soft like a whisper. In sleep he was carefree, his face as pure as a dewdrop, making gentle snuffling noises as he breathed. Dean wishes he could swallow the sound and keep it with him forever. He shakes his head at the weird image. When his thoughts became nonsense, and all the more interesting for it, he knew he was falling asleep. Now all he had to do was follow. He lets his eyes slip closed, everything becoming muddled. Sleep tugged at his mind as he relaxed into it. Forthwith Dean was dreaming.

 

Sam glanced at the two sleeping figures through the rearview mirror and smiled; they had slept the entire way back to the bunker, getting well-deserved sleep.

Dean was fiercely loyal and overprotective, always putting Sam's happiness over his own. Maybe it's just because he cares about Sam too much; the word codependent flashes in front of Sam's eyes mockingly. He likes to act like Sam doesn't know how to do anything on his own and he has to protect him from everything. This though, this thing with Castiel that's too new to really label, is something Sam's overjoyed Dean is allowing himself to have. 

He turns onto the dirt road leading to the bunker, gravel rolling like marbles beneath the Impala's tires. He looks at them again, the trenchcoat draped over them like a shield. When Sam was cleaning the other day, collecting Dean's laundry from his room, he saw the journal that his brother had bought. He'd been shocked at first, reading over the thoughtful words in a dreamlike stupor. It quickly turned into glee when he realized Dean was going to admit his feelings for Castiel, Christmas day as well. 

Sam can't say that he knew the entire time they loved each other. He wasn't as observant as many people believed him to be. Only in the last few years had he seen the turmoil Dean had gone through when Castiel wasn't around. It really got pushed onto the front burner when Castiel died. The way he acted, barely speaking; yelling at Jack at the smallest things, and "killing himself" without hesitation. He guessed part of it was losing their mom, but as soon as Castiel was back it was like a switch being flipped. Dean was silly, happy, and making jokes again.  

All he wanted was for his brother to be happy and if Castiel made him happy, Sam was more than relieved they finally got together.

The garage door opens and Sam drives in, parking the car and cutting the engine. He sits in silence for a few moments, watching his brother press his face into Castiel's hair. Sam could stop smiling really, as the clock on the dash turned to twelve thirty and Jack came out to greet them, his face hurt from the strain. Jack saw the two asleep in the back and remained quiet, a finger pressed to his lips. He gave Sam a hug instead of waking them. Sam got out of the  Impala, going to the back to get the gift Mrs. Webber had given them.

He raised his eyebrows at the fruitcake. Jack looked at it in confusion, taking the lump in his hands.

Sam noticed the black nail polish and hole ripped jeans but didn't say anything. Dean _had_ said Jack was going through his rebellious teenage years.

"What is this?" Jack held the oleaginous block as far from his body as possible. 

"I think it's a fruitcake," Sam whispered back. The conversation rousing Dean and Castiel, but not waking them. "A gift from the old lady."

"Is it supposed to be editable?" Jack handed it back, rubbing his hands off on his shirt.

Sam laughed a little, "we're sure as hell not eating it." 

 

When Dean woke up he realized two things. One, he was in his own bed pressed against Castiel. Jack must've moved them when they got home. They're laying exactly how they were in the car, Castiel's head resting on his chest. Second, it's motherfucking Christmas. He shakes Castiel awake, suddenly giddy. They've both probably slept about six hours, his digital clock flashing four in the morning, but Dean doesn't usually sleep more four hours and he feels more awake then he has in years.

Castiel grunts sleepily, but wakes up. His voice groggy, "what is it, Dean?" 

"Merry Christmas," Dean presses his words into Castiel's lips. 

 He makes a little noise in surprise, pulling away to look at Dean in awe. "You just kissed me."

Dean doesn't bother explaining yet, getting up to pull the journal out from his hiding spot. He held it in his hands for a few moments, toying with the indentation before turning around and handing it to a disoriented Castiel. He speaks quickly, "this is your present. For Christmas, that is. I thought about what you'd want and this seemed the most fitting. Because you're a hunter now, one of us, and I figured you would like to make a journal. I don't know. It seems stupid now. Um—"

Castiel was reading the inside flap, and Dean felt a blush filter onto his cheeks. It was quiet while Castiel read. 

Then the silence was interrupted by Castiel letting out a sob. He keeps the journal in his lap, tears streaming down his face as he looks at Dean.

"I love you." 

Dean realizes a second later that it's Castiel speaking. He clears his throat, looking away, "yeah. Me too."

Face split into an enormous watery grin, Castiel kisses him again. "Thank you for the journal. It's the best gift I've ever received." 

"That's not true," Dean teases between kisses, laughing softly, "that fruitcake is pretty awesome."

 

Later that day, when everyone is awake and Die Hard is playing on Sam's laptop, his brother gives him a thumbs up, "proud of you, Dean."

Dean cuffs him on the back of the head, "shut up, Sasquatch."

Jack squints at them, exasperated, "both of you shut up, I'm trying to watch the movie."

"Yes," Castiel agrees, looking at Dean with mischevious eyes, "be quiet or I'll make you."

"Hell yes," Dean exclaims, making everyone groan.

Castiel just smiles, squeezing his hand. And Dean feels like a piece of his heart is sliding into place.  

**Author's Note:**

> (If you want to message me any prompts or just talk, my twitter is @ImpalaLostiel - I might even tweet about future fics!)
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark! I appreciate the feedback.


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